


Tracer's Birthday Surprise

by Archangel1202



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Birthday, Birthday Spanking, Canon Gay Character, Embarrassment, Exposure, F/F, Spanking, Strip Tease, Strippers & Strip Clubs, Stripping, Useless Lesbians
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-11
Updated: 2020-01-11
Packaged: 2021-02-27 16:08:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,937
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22209931
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Archangel1202/pseuds/Archangel1202
Summary: Against her better judgment, Lena Oxton lets Angela Ziegler and Brigitte Lindholm drag her out to a strip club for her birthday. Unbeknownst to her, they've arranged for her to have a special surprise up on the main stage.
Relationships: Emily/Lena "Tracer" Oxton
Comments: 5
Kudos: 32





	Tracer's Birthday Surprise

**Author's Note:**

> So, this is my first fic on AO3. Hope you all enjoy it. Didn't want anything too hardcore to start off with on my account. Let me know what you think.

“Loves, seriously, where are you taking me?” Lena asks, itching to reach up and remove the blindfold from her eyes. Her hands move, only for another pair to close over them, moving them back down by her sides. 

“No, Lena,” Comes the voice of Angela Ziegler, “Not until we get there. You never let us surprise you on your birthday.” 

“It doesn’t count as a birthday if I’m just turning twenty-seven again,” It’s hard to make an eyeroll obvious beneath a blindfold, but Lena likes to think she does a good job here. 

“What day is it?” 

“Well, it’s March 4th, but-”  


“Were you born on this day?” Angela presses.  


“Yes, but-”  


“So I’m glad we agree it’s your birthday.”

It’s hard to argue with, Lena has to admit, and next to her, Brigitte Lindholme chips in.  


“Besides, you never know, you might even enjoy yourself.” There’s something in that tone, a grin as smug as any hyena’s, and Lena knows something is up. Something neither of her companions is telling her, some prank or trick.  


“Seriously, guys, where are we going?”  


“You’ll find out soon,” Still that smug tone, and Lena turns to the source of the voice, only to recoil as her nose is flicked.  


“If it’s somewhere tacky-”  


“We’ve seen your holiday photos, Tracer,” Brigitte says, and some pink enters Lena’s cheeks. “You don’t get to call a place ‘tacky’.”  


“That was one time, and we were already very drunk.”  


“And you’ll end up very drunk wherever we go tonight,” Angela reassures her, “We’re buying, remember.”  


“Well….alright love, count me in,” Lena says, mollified, “Just get me there quickly, will you?”

Her acceptance drains pretty rapidly, however, as Brigitte undoes the blindfold with a flourish, and Lena sees them stood in front of an establishment proudly calling itself ‘The Pussycat Lounge’, the sign out the front showing the outline of a woman who couldn’t possibly maintain the pose shown without breaking her spine.  


“Seriously?” She asks, her voice flat, “A strip club?”  


“Oh, live a little,” Angela says, and nudges her, “Like I said, we’re paying.”  


“Just what I’ve always wanted, a lap dance paid for by mum.”  


“So you’ll go to just about any nightclub in London,” Brigitte says, “But suddenly a strip club is too far?”  


“It’s just…lame,” Lena says, weakly, “I deal with enough straight girls who aren’t really attracted to me, without having to pay for the privilege.”  


“Are those straight girls usually grinding on you?” Angela asks.  


“More often than you’d think.”  


“We’re here now, anyway,” Brigitte says, “And if you really hate it, we’ll go somewhere else. But we can at least get a couple of drinks. Happy?”  


“Fine,” Lena grumbles, “But I’m leaving as soon as anyone plays ‘Pour Some Sugar On Me’.”  


“That’s fair.”

The inside of the club isn’t quite as bad as Lena had feared. There are no red lights that make the whole thing look like fog after a wildfire. There are no cages with half-naked women writhing in them - not that those don’t have any appeal. It’s not even that crowded with drunk, horny men out to make everyone else miserable. That isn’t to say it’s not dark, sweatier than she likes, and busy, but more of the clientele is girls than she’s expecting. And as for the attractions, well, as much as Lena may deplore the entire enterprise, god damn are some of these girls hot.  


“Still complaining?” Brigitte asks her, nudging her arm, and it’s not until then that Lena realises she’s been staring. Her cheeks blush again, but hopefully it’s not easy to see in the dark.  


“I still think it’s a terrible idea,” Lena insists, but her argument may be undercut by her turning her head to watch as a waitress wearing not much at all walks past them.  


“Yes, you’re miserable here, clearly,” Angela says, and laughs softly. “Come on, we’ll get a table near the front.”  


“Near the front?” Lena asks, and then cocks her head, as something dawns on her. “Did you tell them it’s my birthday?” A thousand videos from the internet flash through her head.  


“Oh, relax,” Brigitte says, entirely unrelaxingly, “We’re just here to have a few drinks, watch some pretty girls, and maybe buy you a dance.”  


“That better be it.”  


“Of course it is,” Angela says with a smile, “You can trust me.”  


A fact that Lena was beginning to doubt more with every passing second.

There’s an act just finishing up on the stage as Angela secures them a table, making sure Lena has a good view of the stage as they sit, and Lena would be lying if she said her attention wasn’t pretty surely focused. It’s a cowgirl themed act - assuming one considers a hat, boots, and not much else to constitute a cowgirl.  


“Like her, huh?” Angela asks, nudging Lena.  


“She’s….she’s alright,” Comes the distracted response as the dancer turns around, and walks to the pole on-stage with a sway in her step, her underwear clinging to every curve on her body.  


“So alright you can’t look away,” Brigitte says, before flagging down a waitress and ordering drinks. Once she’s done, she turns back to Lena. “See? Didn’t mention once that it’s your birthday.”

But Lena is barely listening. Looking away from the dark-haired figure gripping the pole is like a Herculean labour, as one hand runs over her toned, tanned stomach. Suddenly, the dancer shifts, gripping with both hands and raising her legs up the pole until she’s hanging upside down by her ankles. Lena glimpses the strong muscles hard at work on the girl’s back, and her stomach does approximately the same thing, as she sits upright, a gasp escaping her.  


“You need to get laid,” Brigitte observes, “So very badly.”

The display of athleticism continues, the cowgirl hat eventually falling to the floor as those strong shoulders and strong legs and strong back carry the dancer around, and Lena’s thigh begins to bounce nervously. Eventually the music shifts beat again, and the dancer lowers herself back to the floor, and Lena’s lungs finally remember how to work. Only for her to shift in her seat again as the clap of the plaid-patterned bra comes undone. The garment is dropped - to cheers from all around - but carefully placed hands conceal anything more, and then the lights drop. Somewhere in Lena, her stomach drops too. When the lights come back on, the cowgirl is nowhere to be seen.

“Bit early in the night for that, in my experience,” Angela comments, and Brigitte turns to her.  


“How many strip clubs have you been to, exactly?”  


“I’ve lived.”  


Their drinks arrive, and Lena takes a hasty sip of hers, but liquid nitrogen wouldn’t be enough to cool her down right now.  


“Still think it’s dumb?” Brigitte asks, and Lena takes a second to reply.  


“One hundred percent, love. I mean, it’s just...boobs.”  


“Uh huh. That why your face looks like McCree’s poncho?”  


“It’s hot in here,” Lena insists.  


“That’s totally it,” Brigitte says, “Nothing to do with that cowgirl’s leg muscles.”  


“Shut it, love,” Lena says, but more or less conversationally as she starts to regain some composure.  


“If she’s still around, we’ll buy you a dance with her,” Angela says, and Lena’s stomach flips again.  


“That’d be...alright,” She says, trying to play it cool. “I could live with that.”

None of the next performances - all slightly more tame, but met with plenty of tips - quite draw Lena’s attention quite like that one, but she’d be lying if she said that she wasn’t enjoying every last one of them. The dances need a lot of athleticism, and that’s always been a weak spot for her. The other weak spot would be the skimpy outfits. Maybe Brigitte’s right. Maybe she does need to get laid. There’s no further sign of the cowgirl, however, and her disappointment is hard to hide, even when a pretty waitress comes and Lena gets to stick a couple of bills in her underwear.  


“It still feels like it’s with my mum,” Lena complains as Angela hands her some more money.  


“I’m literally ten years older than you,” Angela points out, “Being vaguely responsible doesn’t make you a mother.”  


“You’d be a MILF anyway, don’t worry,” Brigitte cracks, and the other two raise an eyebrow.  


“I’m taking that as a compliment.”  


“It was meant as one.”

A couple of hours - and several drinks - go by with no cowgirl in sight, and Lena’s thinking about suggesting they call it a night when another girl takes to the stage. Her costume is a little more involved than most of the others - which were largely excuses for patterned underwear - with a corset on her top half, and thigh-high boots going up her legs. Her belt is a chainlink contraption, holding up shorts that are barely more than underwear. But it’s the hair that most catches Lena’s attention, a thick wave of red spilling out and down her shoulders, the light from it practically making her pale skin glow.  


“Woah,” She actually says out loud, and she hears sniggers from the others.  


“I think she’s forgotten the cowgirl,” Angela says.  


“Well that’s lucky,” Brigitte says, but Lena’s not listening.

The announcer reveals this girl’s name to be Emily Precious, and thank god Lena’s enraptured or she’d already be turning to the others to mock the ridiculous pseudonym. Emily’s more playful than the other dancers, though, and from the way she shows off to the crowd - a few wiggles, a few blown kisses - Lena guesses she’s pretty popular at the club. After some more warming up, which already earns her some tips thrown on stage, she begins to dance.

It’s still a more tame affair than the cowgirl’s, which seemed to be warming people’s wallets up early, but Lena’s easily even more taken by it. Her latest drink goes untouched as she watches this girl move and flex and slide down the pole. She’s hardly a weakling, but some of the things happening on that stage would leave her thighs aching - unless that’s just from the clenching under the table. As the girl drops from the pole her thighs have clenched around, into a near-perfect handstand that she slowly lowers herself into, Lena actually has to look away as those shoulders all but ripple under the skin, and Brigitte swats her leg before mockingly admonishing her to look at the stage. A few more choice movements, and Lena throws the money Angela gave her onto the stage just because she feels like she has to give something back for watching. As she does so, Emily’s eyes drop to her, and she gives a quick wink and a grin. Lena’s not exactly some stumbling virgin when it comes to girls, but the move catches her so off-guard that she barely makes a return smile, just stares for a second before sitting back down.

The dance ends, and Emily’s wearing just as much as when she’d started, but it’s easily the highest earner of the night so far.  


“Thank you, thank you,” Emily says, with a mock little bow that seems to angle her cleavage perfectly with Lena’s eyes. Funny that. “Now, there’ll be more of that soon, but first we’ve got something a bit special.” Before she’s even really processed those words, Lena’s stomach bottoms out, and as they hit her, she turns to look at Angela and Brigitte, who have miraculously found anywhere to look but at her. “It’s one very special girl’s birthday, and we’re here to help her celebrate it in style. C’mon up here, Miss Lena Oxton.”

A spotlight falls on Lena as the club erupts in whoops and cheers, and Lena’s face all but bursts into flame. She should’ve known better than to trust either of her friends. Angela turns to her, and gestures with her head to the stage.  


“They’re waiting for you,” She whispers, and Lena shoots her a look of daggers. But still, the Brit pushes out her chair and stands up, to renewed cheers, and even Emily offers a few claps. Her way to the stage is slow - and she’s pretty sure at least one spotlight remains focused on the back of her orange leggings as she walks - and apparently it’s too slow for the tastes of Emily Precious, who hops down off the stage and walks towards her. Lena’s under the impression that it’s just for encouragement right up until the second that Emily picks her up in a bridal carry - far too easily, it’s just not fair to be that strong - and begins to carry her, and Lena’s eyes close momentarily.

They make it up onto the stage, where a chair has been set up for them. Having seen those videos on the internet, Lena’s expected to be sat in it and to have the next dance in her favour - not to mention her face - but to her surprise, Emily sits down, pulling Lena into her lap, and holding her there with an arm.  


“Let’s hear it for Lena!” She yells, and applause breaks out. Absolutely nothing in Lena’s life - including being honoured by the UN on multiple occasions - has quite prepared her for this, and so she resets to her default - glaring at Brigitte, who looks smugger than Lena has ever seen her, and gives a melodramatic whoop. God, she’s going to have to get her back. 

“Why don’t we give the lovely Miss Oxton a proper Pussycat Lounge birthday?” Emily asks, to more applause. Lena’s not quite sure what to expect, and she squirms in Emily’s lap, until she hears the words from the audience. They’re singing to her, ‘Happy Birthday’, and the waitresses and dancers who are currently off-duty are joining them. It does nothing to help her self-consciousness, but it’s bearable. And then Emily leans in, her mouth away from the microphone, and starts to sing as well. It’s quiet, sultry, and it’s like Lena’s ears have become directly connected to her arousal as the silky notes pour in, and she’s forced to close her eyes again. She had no idea that ‘Happy Birthday’ could last this long, but then she’s not sure of any song that feels like it lasts ten thousand years. There’s probably a country number that does.

Finally, after Lena’s not sure she’ll ever be able to find another woman attractive ever again, the song ends, and she breathes a sigh of relief. There’s a pat to her thigh from the dancer, and, thinking she’s done, she goes to hop to her feet and vacate the stage. And maybe fall into a hole somewhere. But the hand on her stomach holds her in place, and Emily shakes her head.  


“I said a proper Pussycat Lounge birthday,” She says, back into the microphone, and there’s yet more cheers, and Lena can absolutely hear Angela and Brigitte, even over all of the others, “You’re not done yet.”  


Lena goes to ask what more there could be, when Emily begins to physically move her. Her legs are pulled to one side of the chair and her head the other, and she doesn’t quite realise what’s happening until she’s been pulled over Emily’s lap proper, her orange-clad ass in the air.  


“Oh my god,” She says, her voice breathless, as it hits her, and the dancer adopts a more serious expression, leaning down, away from the microphone.  


“Are you okay with this?” She asks. And her voice, while gentle, is more serious. It lacks the flirty, playful tone from earlier. “If you want me to stop, or to go softer, just say.”  


It’s disbelief and adrenaline that gives Lena’s voice ten times the surety she feels.  


“Give me your best shot, love. I can take it.”  


Emily’s look of momentary surprise mirrors exactly how Lena feels to hear the words come out of her mouth, but it’s covered up briefly. And the tone she sang in returns, as sultry velvet escapes her mouth.  


“Good girl.”

God. That can’t be legal. Somebody should need a permit to wield a voice like that. A few more cheers build, and then.  


“How old are you, Lena?” Emily asks, “Gotta know how many you’re in for.” One hand holds her in place from the small of her back, and Lena squirms against her. The microphone is held down to her mouth, and it’s with a self-conscious laugh she answers, refusing to look up.  


“Twenty-seven.” It’s technically correct, and likely to be easier on her rear end.  


“Twenty-seven,” Emily repeats, “I should’ve warmed my hand up. You gonna count with me, everyone?”

And they do, a ‘one’ resounding through the club as the hand comes cracking down on Lena’s ass, making her jump against Emily’s lap. Just that one hit is enough to leave a stinging feeling in what Lena imagines is an exact print of the dancer’s hand, and then the area is rubbed, something that practically robs her of breath.  


“Exactly, one,” Emily says, dragging it out, and Lena squirms again. “Think you can take twenty-six more, Miss Oxton?” But no microphone is held to her lips this time, and the next spank comes halfway through her affirmation, cutting her off. It’s right on top of the first hit, probably finger-to-finger exact, and Lena twists to give Emily an outraged look. Its only response is raised eyebrows and a wink.  


“And that’s two,” Emily says, echoing the crowd. “God, I love birthday girls.” Mercifully - for a given value of mercy - the next spank comes down on her other cheek.

Lena’s opinion of whether she loves or hates her friends switches with every impact on her ass, but there’s no such doubts how she feels about Emily. The dancer is ruthless in the show, sometimes coming down two or even three times on the same spot, sometimes spreading the spanks out evenly. Every time, between them, she gives some gentle - and less gentle - rubs of the area, the occasional squeeze, and Lara’s toes clench in her practical sneakers. Once or twice she even takes a grip on Lena’s short hair for a hit, but care is paid so it always looks much firmer than it is, and Lena barely feels any tug. She doesn’t mind a bit of show tricks, not for this. With each hit, the audience counts, and, after some teasing prodding from Emily, Lena does too. As ‘seventeen’ tumbles breathlessly from her lips, Emily takes a pause, and she tenses, expecting a harder hit. But there’s nothing for a few more seconds, and Lena finally turns to look at Emily when she’s not expecting a hand on her ass or fingers in her hair. 

There’s just a smirk on Emily’s face, contemplative, and then she looks away, back to the audience.  


“You guys think we should make these last ten super-special?” Emily asks, “Give lovely Lena here a birthday she’ll never forget?”  


The response is near-deafening, but Lena’s pretty damn sure she can still hear her friends yelling ‘yes’ at the top of their lungs. She is gonna have to kill them.  


“Well, we can’t disappoint you, or her!” Emily says, and if Tracer isn’t red from her roots to her chin, it’s only because the blood’s all travelled elsewhere. Again, Emily leans down, that serious tone back. “You alright to take things up a notch?” She asks. “You can say no, seriously.”  


Lena considers it for a second, she really does, but then she considers the fact that this girl could tell her to blink into the sun, and she’d give it a college try,  


“Bring it,” She says, and manages to find one last nugget of defiance in her for that tone. Emily smirks, and then uses a carefully controlled grip on her hair to pull her to her feet.

Lena realises what ‘up a notch’ means as fingers find their way to her leggings, and she just has time to gasp before they’re tugged down to her sneakers amidst a hail of cheers, keeping her ankles together. As her long, toned legs and shapely rear are revealed, Lena wishes that Angela and Brigitte had given her any notice of their plans before slipping a blindfold over her eyes, so she could’ve gotten changed. So she’d be wearing anything other than an orange thong carefully chosen to avoid panty-lines and that provides almost no modesty whatsoever. So she wouldn't be practically half-naked in front of an entire club.  


“Somebody came prepared,” Emily says, to laughter, and then gives a cheek a friendly squeeze. Her fingers toy with the waistband of that thong, and Tracer tenses with the audience, but then Emily laughs, and shakes her head. “Nah,” She says, “None of you deserve that.” And then, as she pulls Lena back over her lap, she murmurs back into her ear. “You do.” And it’s again like liquid velvet.

The next spank hits already-reddened skin, without the - admittedly weak- protection of her leggings, and so Lena’s legs kick out as her body jerks, and Emily grins as a hand tightens in her hair again.  


“Be good,” She says, before delivering two strikes in a row, and while Lena still shakes, she doesn’t kick. “There we go.” 

Twenty-three, and Lena’s meant to survive four more of these. They’re distributed fairly, two strikes to each cheek, and Emily keeps her there for another minute, before pulling her back to her feet. Both sets of cheek are entirely aflame, and Lena’s not looking anywhere other than at the dancer. Emily reaches down to the stage, grabs a pair of ten-dollar bills, and Lena’s eyes widen as they’re tucked into her panties. 

“Get yourself a couple of drinks on me, you did great.” 

Her tone’s still playful, but there’s some genuine praise in it, and Lena would be ashamed of how much she’s willing to lap it up if she was in a headspace that allowed for anything resembling shame right now. Her leggings are pulled up, and her rear gets one last pat. Not entirely sure she’s in control of her own muscles, she begins to descend the stage.

“Let’s hear it for Lena Oxton, on a birthday she’ll never forget!” Emily says into the microphone, and the club breaks out into applause again. The spotlight remains on her halfway to her seat, and then all flick back to Emily as a slow song breaks out and she begins to dance. Angela and Brigitte are both grinning as Lena makes her way back to their table.  


“Good surprise?” Angela asks, as innocent as if she’d just presented her a cake.  


“You’re both the worst,” Lena says, but there’s precisely no venom to her tone,  


“Don’t act like you didn’t love it,” Brigitte says, smirking.  


“Don’t think I won’t kill you both, loves. I will.”  


“You’ll be thanking us by the end of the night,” Brigitte says, “If that’s even the end of it.”  


“...What do you mean?” Lena asks, her eyes wide.  


“The night’s still young. You’ve got plenty of birthday left. Who knows what could happen?”  


Emily dances another song, during which her shorts finally come off to reveal panties beneath them, but Lena’s not in a headspace to be focusing, still overwhelmed. Still, after a few minutes, Angela gently shakes her arm. The opening guitar chords of a song are playing. ‘Pour Some Sugar On Me’.  


“Is that our cue to leave?” Brigitte asks, one eyebrow raising.  


Lena looks toward the stage, where Emily is facing away and beginning to move.  


“...I think we can stay a bit longer,” She says.

**Author's Note:**

> Side note: This was 100% inspired by a Halsey twitter post I saw.


End file.
